Across the Fence #332
Two low-flying cranes flew directly over our house during the weekend. They were heading north. Every time I see a crane flying, I think of my friend, John Beaudin. He was a member of the Crane Clan.
I first met John at The Highground dedication of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial at Neillsville, Wisconsin, in September of 1988. He was a Chippewa and was to represent the Native Americans during the ceremony. John was dressed in his Native American outfit, complete with Eagle feathers and his grandfather’s Eagle feather bustle and war club. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a history book. We were behind the podium when I introduced myself and told him I’d let him know when he was to speak. As I watched him walking around, he had a regal presence and confidence in the way he carried himself.
After I unveiled the statue and talked about the design, he was to talk before the drummers began their warrior song. As John began speaking, the threatening rain finally arrived, and it poured. His notes on yellow legal paper turned to a garbled mess, but he continued speaking without the use of notes.
I was feeling bad about the rain spoiling our dedication. After he finished his portion of the program, I told him I was sorry the rain had ruined everything. He was smiling and his eyes seemed to glow with excitement. “This is wonderful he said,” lifting his face to the sky to let the rain fall on it. He then explained to me what the rain meant to him and to all the Native Americans present at the dedication that day.
“The Great Spirit and the Grandfathers made it rain. The power of the dedication, the power of the moment, had brought those loved ones left in Vietnam, Germany, Italy, Japan, Korea and other foreign countries back to view the dedication. And they had cried. Not tears of despair, not tears of hate for the sacrifice they made, but tears of joy that they would be remembered. Their tears had blessed and purified The Highground with their approval.”
John and I discovered that we lived within a few blocks of each other in Madison. That began a friendship that grew and lasted until the day he died from cancer at only 48 years of age.
John was a lawyer in Madison. It wasn’t easy being an advocate for “Indian’s” rights. He often found himself standing squarely in the center of problems between the Indians and whites. The spear fishing confrontations is just one example.
At the time of his death he was Chief Judge of the Lac Courte Oreillies Tribal Court. On his business card that he had me design, there’s a drawing of a crane flying into a circle that represented the circle of life. The crane was white within the circle and black outside the circle. We talked about nothing being entirely black and white, or red and white as he liked to say. Everything has some of the other within it, just like the Yin and Yang symbol from the Orient. In our talks I discovered many similarities in thinking and philosophy between Native American and Oriental teachings. Those are teachings that I had already embraced while studying martial arts.
The times I took him to University Hospital, while he was undergoing treatments for cancer, he seemed to be a favorite of everyone we met. I’d push him along in the wheelchair and staff would ask him how he was doing today. “Just great,” he’d reply with a big smile and then ask them how THEY were doing. He didn’t complain or show his fears to them, but voiced them to me in private. He didn’t want to die. There was too much to live for. He wanted to see his daughter, Kiana, grow up. I could only be there and listen. I couldn’t change anything.
One place he found comfort was in his spirituality. “Indian religion,” he called it. We often talked about our beliefs. I found his beliefs, that centered around nature, were very consistent with mine. The earth is sacred. Life is a circle, not straight lines. We both learned as we explored each others beliefs with an open mind. We also became closer friends.
John started calling me Ole Red Cloud, the Norwegian Indian. He’d introduce me to his friends as, “This is my brother, Ole Red Cloud.” They’d look at me and say, “Ole, that’s a strange name for an Indian.”
On April 4, 1993, just minutes into the new day, the Eagle picked John up and carried him across the water to join his ancestors. John Beaudin, Wa Kanga Hoohega (the Thunder of Many Voices), is dancing with the Ancestors now. He can ride the wings of the Crane any time he wants to return to The Highground, where he had me promise I’d spread his ashes on the dove mound. If you sit quietly and listen, his voice can be heard in the wind moving gently through the grass. You can feel him dancing on the dove mound as the wind caresses your face. You can hear him singing with all the other voices as the wind releases the music of the chimes. As long as the wind blows, the spirit of the Thunder of Many Voices will never be silenced.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Sound of Running Water
Across the Fence #331
I think it’s finally arriving. Spring is in the air. I heard it in the sound of running water. During my walk this evening, water was running in the ditches and flooding the low spots in the fields. It was nice to hear that sound again. It’s been a long winter. We still have huge piles of snow around our house and yard, but patches of brown are finally breaking through the white landscape of fields around us.
I notice it in the evenings too. It’s darker outside as we begin to lose our snow cover. Snow has a way of softening and lightening the landscape. Now those spreading dark patches, add to the darkness of the night. If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, take a walk outside in the evening and you’ll see. Although, by the time you read this, the snow may be all gone.
Over the weekend I went for what was probably my final trek on snowshoes for the winter. The snow is now crusted from the daily thawing and freezing temperatures. It wasn’t the usual quiet adventure across fields and through wooded areas. There was the constant crunching of snow with every step I took. I wasn’t about to sneak up on any wildlife this time for photo opportunities. It’s typical maple syrup making weather with freezing temperatures at night and mild, sap-running temps during the day.
This is late winter, early spring weather with all its contrasts. It’s a great time of year to get out and enjoy the many sights, sounds, and smells of nature in transition. Maybe I’ll take a pass on some of the smells. We’ll come back to that subject later.
What other time of year could you enjoy snowshoeing along snow-covered fence lines and hear water running through the ditches and streams from the snow melt? I also snowshoed around the pond that’s now full from the melted snow that runs down through the little valley behind the house. There was still a layer of ice from the recent cold nights, but I wouldn’t want to venture out on that ice. It looked pretty thin.
I remember when a bunch of us neighborhood farm boys would sweep the snow off the ice on cold winter days and play hockey on it. I think I’ve mentioned before that none of us had skates, and we didn’t have hockey sticks or a puck either. A tobacco lath with a shorter lath cut and nailed at an angle to one end, became our stick. It sort of looked like a hockey stick. I don’t remember what we used for a puck. We could have used a frozen cow pie, but that would have been too big! I guess we just shuffled around the ice in our four-buckle boots and tried to keep from falling down, while trying to hit whatever the puck was, past the goalie. By the way, we didn’t have a net either. I think we just built a couple piles of snow and tried to shoot the puck between the piles. It was simple, inexpensive fun. Although I don’t think Dad would have been very happy with those broken tobacco laths at ten cents each.
I wish the pond would hold water year-round like it did in the past. It seems to have turned into a sinkhole and the water quickly disappears. A dried up water supply doesn’t help keep the deer and other wildlife around. When I was young, I don’t remember the pond ever running dry, except if there was a very dry summer.
Another thing that concerns me is that manure could run off the surrounding fields and into the pond. Where does that water that’s disappearing end up?
Speaking of manure, as I was walking past the old barnyard this evening, the smell I mentioned earlier brought back thoughts about hauling out manure in the spring. This time of year, there would be a huge manure pile behind the barn where we had been dumping and stockpiling it all winter when Dad couldn’t get in the fields.
When the pile thawed out in the spring it was time to haul it out to the fields and spread it for fertilizer. We loaded it, one pitchfork at a time, into the manure spreader. We got to help after school and on weekends. Dad didn’t get a manure loader on the tractor until I had headed off to college. I guess he had a manure loader before that time—I just wasn’t mounted on the tractor.
Things sure have changed since those days when most jobs were done by hand. Tractors and all the attachments certainly changed farming. It’s no wonder the farmers were so strong and in such good shape. No one had to head for a health club at the end of the day, and pay a membership fee, to get their exercise. They just wanted to sit down and rest after working 14-16 hour days. When I think of all the physical labor people once had to do, not that many years ago, it’s a wonder they had time to do anything except work. They didn’t have to worry about losing weight either.
Those are some of the memories that running water from the melting snow triggers, as it sloshes through the recesses in my mind.
I think it’s finally arriving. Spring is in the air. I heard it in the sound of running water. During my walk this evening, water was running in the ditches and flooding the low spots in the fields. It was nice to hear that sound again. It’s been a long winter. We still have huge piles of snow around our house and yard, but patches of brown are finally breaking through the white landscape of fields around us.
I notice it in the evenings too. It’s darker outside as we begin to lose our snow cover. Snow has a way of softening and lightening the landscape. Now those spreading dark patches, add to the darkness of the night. If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, take a walk outside in the evening and you’ll see. Although, by the time you read this, the snow may be all gone.
Over the weekend I went for what was probably my final trek on snowshoes for the winter. The snow is now crusted from the daily thawing and freezing temperatures. It wasn’t the usual quiet adventure across fields and through wooded areas. There was the constant crunching of snow with every step I took. I wasn’t about to sneak up on any wildlife this time for photo opportunities. It’s typical maple syrup making weather with freezing temperatures at night and mild, sap-running temps during the day.
This is late winter, early spring weather with all its contrasts. It’s a great time of year to get out and enjoy the many sights, sounds, and smells of nature in transition. Maybe I’ll take a pass on some of the smells. We’ll come back to that subject later.
What other time of year could you enjoy snowshoeing along snow-covered fence lines and hear water running through the ditches and streams from the snow melt? I also snowshoed around the pond that’s now full from the melted snow that runs down through the little valley behind the house. There was still a layer of ice from the recent cold nights, but I wouldn’t want to venture out on that ice. It looked pretty thin.
I remember when a bunch of us neighborhood farm boys would sweep the snow off the ice on cold winter days and play hockey on it. I think I’ve mentioned before that none of us had skates, and we didn’t have hockey sticks or a puck either. A tobacco lath with a shorter lath cut and nailed at an angle to one end, became our stick. It sort of looked like a hockey stick. I don’t remember what we used for a puck. We could have used a frozen cow pie, but that would have been too big! I guess we just shuffled around the ice in our four-buckle boots and tried to keep from falling down, while trying to hit whatever the puck was, past the goalie. By the way, we didn’t have a net either. I think we just built a couple piles of snow and tried to shoot the puck between the piles. It was simple, inexpensive fun. Although I don’t think Dad would have been very happy with those broken tobacco laths at ten cents each.
I wish the pond would hold water year-round like it did in the past. It seems to have turned into a sinkhole and the water quickly disappears. A dried up water supply doesn’t help keep the deer and other wildlife around. When I was young, I don’t remember the pond ever running dry, except if there was a very dry summer.
Another thing that concerns me is that manure could run off the surrounding fields and into the pond. Where does that water that’s disappearing end up?
Speaking of manure, as I was walking past the old barnyard this evening, the smell I mentioned earlier brought back thoughts about hauling out manure in the spring. This time of year, there would be a huge manure pile behind the barn where we had been dumping and stockpiling it all winter when Dad couldn’t get in the fields.
When the pile thawed out in the spring it was time to haul it out to the fields and spread it for fertilizer. We loaded it, one pitchfork at a time, into the manure spreader. We got to help after school and on weekends. Dad didn’t get a manure loader on the tractor until I had headed off to college. I guess he had a manure loader before that time—I just wasn’t mounted on the tractor.
Things sure have changed since those days when most jobs were done by hand. Tractors and all the attachments certainly changed farming. It’s no wonder the farmers were so strong and in such good shape. No one had to head for a health club at the end of the day, and pay a membership fee, to get their exercise. They just wanted to sit down and rest after working 14-16 hour days. When I think of all the physical labor people once had to do, not that many years ago, it’s a wonder they had time to do anything except work. They didn’t have to worry about losing weight either.
Those are some of the memories that running water from the melting snow triggers, as it sloshes through the recesses in my mind.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Her Irish Eyes Are Smiling
Across the Fence #330
This old Norwegian-American wishes a Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all of you who have Irish blood coursing through your veins. It’s time to put the lutefisk and lefse away for a day and break out the corned beef and cabbage.
I won’t be drinking any green beer, but I will be partaking of a corned beef and cabbage meal. I think it’s a safe bet that most of us who had ancestors along the western coast of Norway, have a wee bit of Irish blood and have a bunch of Irish genes. It’s a historical fact that our Viking ancestors established several major Irish cities, including Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Limerick. DNA studies have shown that 30 to 40 percent of the people in many regions of Ireland have Viking ancestry. Also, many an Irish lass ended up back in Norway after the Vikings “toured” Ireland. So, not only can we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, but the Irish can celebrate Syttende Mai too. Norskies and the Irish have the best of both worlds.
As many of you know, I’ve done a lot of research on our family roots over the years. I know it doesn’t seem very important to some people, But I think knowing your roots gives you a better sense of who you are. We’re a part of all those who came before us. That includes the good, the bad, and the ugly. Every family tree has some ancestors of dubious character and skeletons hanging in it.
There’s a new television show on Friday nights called “Who Do You Think You Are?” We’ve found it a fascinating show, as it follows celebrities on their journey as they track down their ancestors. I always find it hard to understand how so few people can name their great grandparents and know nothing about their lives. If you’re ever feeling like you’re pretty important and the world couldn’t function without you, just remember, in one hundred years, most of your direct descendents won’t even remember your name, let alone what you did while you were here! That’s an interesting and humbling thought, isn’t it? That’s why I always encourage people to tell or write down their stories. Don’t take them to the grave with you. I wish my grandparents and great grandparents had left a written record of their lives. It would be priceless to those of us who delve into family history.
The study of history is important to me. Perhaps that’s one reason I’ve traced our family back through history for hundreds of years on both my mother and father’s sides. All my ancestry lines go back to Norway. All my great grandparents were born in Norway.
I’ve also done some research on Linda’s family. We have some information on her father’s side, but we knew nothing about her mother’s ancestry. That side of the tree was as bare as a winter tree. Linda suspected her mother had some Irish roots, but couldn’t prove it. She and her brothers have always loved Irish music and have had a strong attachment for all things Irish.
Over the weekend we decided to see what we could find. Using Ancestry.com, I put in the available information about her mother and within half an hour I had traced her family back to Tipperary, Ireland, where Linda’s great, great grandparents were born. Linda was excited. We had found her Irish roots.
Her ancestors were among the million people who left Ireland during the great potato famine between 1845 and 1852. During the famine approximately one million people died from starvation because most of the potato crop was destroyed by the potato blight. Linda’s ancestors were among the lucky ones who made it to America to start a new life. There again, I wish we had a written story of the trials and tribulations they went through. It must have been a very hard time. Their lives are important in the history of our family and it would be nice to know more about them—the great, great, great grandparents of our children.
As I searched the records on Ancestry.com, and followed Linda’s maternal ancestry lines, back through time, I also came across several Norwegian ancestors. Uff da, now that she knows she has both Irish and Norwegian blood, she’s going to be hard to live with. You know what they say, “You can always tell an Irishman, but you can’t tell them much.” Or maybe that was a Norwegian that you can’t tell much. Either way, I’m in trouble now!
After just a few hours of researching her mother’s family on-line, we’re back to the 1500’s in some lines. It’s amazing what information is available on the Internet. It truly does connect the world together. I call it the Cosmic Connection.
We now have names, birth and death dates, places of birth, and a few other details about Linda’s ancestors, but we don’t have any stories about their lives. Names and dates are nice to have, but as they say, it’s the dash between the numbers that makes them come to life. I’ll keep searching for the dash. No one is going to be forgotten as long as I’m above ground.
It was great to find those Irish roots for Linda and our family. Her Irish eyes are smiling. Break out the corned beef and cabbage!
This old Norwegian-American wishes a Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all of you who have Irish blood coursing through your veins. It’s time to put the lutefisk and lefse away for a day and break out the corned beef and cabbage.
I won’t be drinking any green beer, but I will be partaking of a corned beef and cabbage meal. I think it’s a safe bet that most of us who had ancestors along the western coast of Norway, have a wee bit of Irish blood and have a bunch of Irish genes. It’s a historical fact that our Viking ancestors established several major Irish cities, including Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Limerick. DNA studies have shown that 30 to 40 percent of the people in many regions of Ireland have Viking ancestry. Also, many an Irish lass ended up back in Norway after the Vikings “toured” Ireland. So, not only can we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, but the Irish can celebrate Syttende Mai too. Norskies and the Irish have the best of both worlds.
As many of you know, I’ve done a lot of research on our family roots over the years. I know it doesn’t seem very important to some people, But I think knowing your roots gives you a better sense of who you are. We’re a part of all those who came before us. That includes the good, the bad, and the ugly. Every family tree has some ancestors of dubious character and skeletons hanging in it.
There’s a new television show on Friday nights called “Who Do You Think You Are?” We’ve found it a fascinating show, as it follows celebrities on their journey as they track down their ancestors. I always find it hard to understand how so few people can name their great grandparents and know nothing about their lives. If you’re ever feeling like you’re pretty important and the world couldn’t function without you, just remember, in one hundred years, most of your direct descendents won’t even remember your name, let alone what you did while you were here! That’s an interesting and humbling thought, isn’t it? That’s why I always encourage people to tell or write down their stories. Don’t take them to the grave with you. I wish my grandparents and great grandparents had left a written record of their lives. It would be priceless to those of us who delve into family history.
The study of history is important to me. Perhaps that’s one reason I’ve traced our family back through history for hundreds of years on both my mother and father’s sides. All my ancestry lines go back to Norway. All my great grandparents were born in Norway.
I’ve also done some research on Linda’s family. We have some information on her father’s side, but we knew nothing about her mother’s ancestry. That side of the tree was as bare as a winter tree. Linda suspected her mother had some Irish roots, but couldn’t prove it. She and her brothers have always loved Irish music and have had a strong attachment for all things Irish.
Over the weekend we decided to see what we could find. Using Ancestry.com, I put in the available information about her mother and within half an hour I had traced her family back to Tipperary, Ireland, where Linda’s great, great grandparents were born. Linda was excited. We had found her Irish roots.
Her ancestors were among the million people who left Ireland during the great potato famine between 1845 and 1852. During the famine approximately one million people died from starvation because most of the potato crop was destroyed by the potato blight. Linda’s ancestors were among the lucky ones who made it to America to start a new life. There again, I wish we had a written story of the trials and tribulations they went through. It must have been a very hard time. Their lives are important in the history of our family and it would be nice to know more about them—the great, great, great grandparents of our children.
As I searched the records on Ancestry.com, and followed Linda’s maternal ancestry lines, back through time, I also came across several Norwegian ancestors. Uff da, now that she knows she has both Irish and Norwegian blood, she’s going to be hard to live with. You know what they say, “You can always tell an Irishman, but you can’t tell them much.” Or maybe that was a Norwegian that you can’t tell much. Either way, I’m in trouble now!
After just a few hours of researching her mother’s family on-line, we’re back to the 1500’s in some lines. It’s amazing what information is available on the Internet. It truly does connect the world together. I call it the Cosmic Connection.
We now have names, birth and death dates, places of birth, and a few other details about Linda’s ancestors, but we don’t have any stories about their lives. Names and dates are nice to have, but as they say, it’s the dash between the numbers that makes them come to life. I’ll keep searching for the dash. No one is going to be forgotten as long as I’m above ground.
It was great to find those Irish roots for Linda and our family. Her Irish eyes are smiling. Break out the corned beef and cabbage!
Saturday, March 5, 2011
The Train of Life Waits for Nobody
Across the Fence #329
What does the future hold for the way we communicate with each other? Is there anyone out there who doesn’t think that everything is changing? Can you hear me? Can you see me?
The way we communicate with each other has changed dramatically during my lifetime. Crank phones, party lines, rotary phones, and push button phones, have either disappeared or are going the way of the telegraph and smoke signals.
We’re becoming a very mobile, video-based society. Cell phones, text messaging, Facebook, Skype, Twitter, and numerous other applications are the way young people communicate today. The younger generation prefers text messaging over voice communication. People are no longer tied to their home or office to send and receive messages. They take their communication devices with them wherever they go.
As I write this column, I’m on an airplane headed back home from Dallas, Texas. I’ve spent the past week there at the National Telecommunications Cooperative Association (NTCA) Conference and Expo. I have my cell phone and my computer within reach. Others traveling with me, have their iPhones, Droids, and iPads. On these devices we can check our messages, e-mails, send messages, and continue to conduct business, even while flying from Dallas to Minneapolis.
In many ways this is a double-edged sword. It’s handy and a great way to stay in touch and up to date, but on the other hand, it’s very hard to get totally away from work.
At the conference we learned how much and how rapidly the world of communications is changing. It’s both exciting and scary. People will need to jump on board and embrace the changes or be left behind. I know all the changes are very scary for many people, but there’s no turning back the clock to what we call those simpler times that many of us remember.
I can’t even imagine the changes that will take place in the next few years. Listen to these quotes regarding telephones, radios, and computers.
“Well-informed people know it’s impossible to transmit their voices over wires, and even if it were possible, the thing would not have practical value.” – Editorial in the Boston Post, 1865.
“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.” – Thomas Watson, Chairman of IBM, 1943.
“There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” – Ken Olson, President, Chairman, and Founder of Digital Equipment Corporation, 1977.
It’s hard to believe, that these people in leadership positions didn’t see any market for these technological inventions. Look how far computers have come since that statement in 1977—only 34 years ago. Besides everything else computers can do, they’re now capable of hearing and speaking too. With Skype you can now communicate with people all over the world and see each other as you talk. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Yes I can, loud and clear.
The technology curve has become so steep and fast that it’s hard to imagine the changes we’ll see in just the next five years. During the conference, we heard about some of the changes coming that boggle my mind. Have you heard about flexible video screens? Google it!
We also learned that you either change with the times, or you will cease to exist. I’ve seen that time and again since I graduated with a commercial art degree a lifetime ago. Everything has changed. As the business of advertising kept changing, I had two choices, either accept the changes and climb aboard, or live in the past and let the train of changing technology go on without me. With each change, I decided to hang on for dear life and keep riding. It hasn’t been easy. The computer age was another two-edged sword. I learned to do graphic arts on a computer while flying by the seat of my pants—a major uff da. It was either learn it or get out of the business.
I’m reminded of a friend who was badly wounded in Vietnam. He spent a couple years in hospitals recuperating. At one time he was so weak he couldn’t lift a five-pound weight. He’d given up and wanted to die. One day an old army nurse was trying to get him to do his therapy. He just lay in his hospital bed and wouldn’t cooperate. The nurse finally stepped back, gave his bed a swift kick and yelled at him, “The train of life waits for nobody. If you want to just lie there and die, go ahead! I’ve got a lot of people on this ward who want to live and they need my help.” She turned on her heels and left him lying there. That moment was the turning point for him. He decided he wanted to get back on the train of life. He’d show her. He learned to adapt and wasn’t left behind.
When you have trouble mastering that remote for your TV, just think of all the changes you’ve seen in your life and how you’ve adapted. There’s always hope, and change can be exciting. We can have fun remembering and talking about the past, but we need to live in the present, and look to the future. It’s going to be an exciting ride!
What does the future hold for the way we communicate with each other? Is there anyone out there who doesn’t think that everything is changing? Can you hear me? Can you see me?
The way we communicate with each other has changed dramatically during my lifetime. Crank phones, party lines, rotary phones, and push button phones, have either disappeared or are going the way of the telegraph and smoke signals.
We’re becoming a very mobile, video-based society. Cell phones, text messaging, Facebook, Skype, Twitter, and numerous other applications are the way young people communicate today. The younger generation prefers text messaging over voice communication. People are no longer tied to their home or office to send and receive messages. They take their communication devices with them wherever they go.
As I write this column, I’m on an airplane headed back home from Dallas, Texas. I’ve spent the past week there at the National Telecommunications Cooperative Association (NTCA) Conference and Expo. I have my cell phone and my computer within reach. Others traveling with me, have their iPhones, Droids, and iPads. On these devices we can check our messages, e-mails, send messages, and continue to conduct business, even while flying from Dallas to Minneapolis.
In many ways this is a double-edged sword. It’s handy and a great way to stay in touch and up to date, but on the other hand, it’s very hard to get totally away from work.
At the conference we learned how much and how rapidly the world of communications is changing. It’s both exciting and scary. People will need to jump on board and embrace the changes or be left behind. I know all the changes are very scary for many people, but there’s no turning back the clock to what we call those simpler times that many of us remember.
I can’t even imagine the changes that will take place in the next few years. Listen to these quotes regarding telephones, radios, and computers.
“Well-informed people know it’s impossible to transmit their voices over wires, and even if it were possible, the thing would not have practical value.” – Editorial in the Boston Post, 1865.
“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.” – Thomas Watson, Chairman of IBM, 1943.
“There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” – Ken Olson, President, Chairman, and Founder of Digital Equipment Corporation, 1977.
It’s hard to believe, that these people in leadership positions didn’t see any market for these technological inventions. Look how far computers have come since that statement in 1977—only 34 years ago. Besides everything else computers can do, they’re now capable of hearing and speaking too. With Skype you can now communicate with people all over the world and see each other as you talk. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Yes I can, loud and clear.
The technology curve has become so steep and fast that it’s hard to imagine the changes we’ll see in just the next five years. During the conference, we heard about some of the changes coming that boggle my mind. Have you heard about flexible video screens? Google it!
We also learned that you either change with the times, or you will cease to exist. I’ve seen that time and again since I graduated with a commercial art degree a lifetime ago. Everything has changed. As the business of advertising kept changing, I had two choices, either accept the changes and climb aboard, or live in the past and let the train of changing technology go on without me. With each change, I decided to hang on for dear life and keep riding. It hasn’t been easy. The computer age was another two-edged sword. I learned to do graphic arts on a computer while flying by the seat of my pants—a major uff da. It was either learn it or get out of the business.
I’m reminded of a friend who was badly wounded in Vietnam. He spent a couple years in hospitals recuperating. At one time he was so weak he couldn’t lift a five-pound weight. He’d given up and wanted to die. One day an old army nurse was trying to get him to do his therapy. He just lay in his hospital bed and wouldn’t cooperate. The nurse finally stepped back, gave his bed a swift kick and yelled at him, “The train of life waits for nobody. If you want to just lie there and die, go ahead! I’ve got a lot of people on this ward who want to live and they need my help.” She turned on her heels and left him lying there. That moment was the turning point for him. He decided he wanted to get back on the train of life. He’d show her. He learned to adapt and wasn’t left behind.
When you have trouble mastering that remote for your TV, just think of all the changes you’ve seen in your life and how you’ve adapted. There’s always hope, and change can be exciting. We can have fun remembering and talking about the past, but we need to live in the present, and look to the future. It’s going to be an exciting ride!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
There's More To Fishing Than Fish
Across the Fence #328
I just returned from spending six days at a conference in Dallas, Texas. It was sunny and the temperature was in the 70’s each day. Now I’m back in Wisconsin and we’re in the middle of a major winter storm. I’m ready to cry “Uncle.” Like most of you, I’ve had enough of winter and don’t want to think about it any more. I’m ready for nice, spring weather, not snow, freezing rain, ice, and cold weather.
It’s time to start thinking about the early trout season and my thoughts are turning to fishing. There’s more to becoming a fisherman than just dropping your line in the water and catching fish.
Henry David Thoreau said, “Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.”
There is truth in those words. A young boy is usually introduced to the woods and streams as a hunter and fisherman, generally tagging along with his father to learn the ways of being a part of the natural world around us. Such was my introduction to hunting, fishing, and spending time enjoying the outdoors. I still take a fishing pole with me when I go fishing, but catching fish is just one aspect of fishing when a person becomes a poet (writer) or naturalist, as Thoreau says.
I remember Sunday family picnics along the banks of a stream running through the Kickapoo Valley near Bloomingdale and Avalanche. They were Hanson family outings that included my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and the Hanson cousins.
Blankets were spread on the grass and picnic baskets, full to overflowing with food, were carried from the cars that had been parked alongside the winding country road.
The women sat on the blankets talking and unpacking the food while the men brought out the fishing gear and headed for the bank of the creek. Most of us kids followed close behind. A red and white bobber was attached to the line and a wiggling earthworm was retrieved from a coffee can filled with dirt. The men would impale the struggling worm on a simple hook at the end of the line attached to an old cane pole for each of us kids. They would even put the line in the water before finally handing the pole to us.
We would sit quietly on the bank, hanging onto the pole for dear life in case a monster fish would suddenly strike. We kept our eyes on the bobber as it floated undisturbed on the surface of the water with nary a ripple and no tug from a monster fish.
We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The anticipation of our bobber suddenly disappearing, eventually gave way to boredom and we soon left our cane poles in the grass and went off exploring along the creek or playing catch. Youngsters are usually short on the patience needed for fishing.
The men would remain seated along the bank, pretending to fish, while discussing the problems of farming and the world in general. Maybe I should have called this column “Beside the Creek” instead of “Across the Fence.” Many stories were told and much information was exchanged on those leisurely Sunday afternoon picnics alongside the meandering creek. I don’t recall many fish being caught, but perhaps that wasn’t the real purpose of fishing after all. Those quiet, peaceful moments along the bank of the creek, with the sound of the water winding its way among the rocks, was music for the soul. This was something the men understood but us youngsters had yet to discover it.
As we got older, our fishing trips were to the Mississippi River. On those rare summer days when there was a lull in the workload on the farm, dad would take us with when he went fishing. We helped him dig worms while ma packed a lunch for us. After stowing the fishing gear, worms, lunch, life preservers, and outboard motor in the trunk of the car, we headed for Genoa, about half an hour away. Our first stop was at the general store in Romance to buy soda and a candy bar, which was always a treat. Of course dad had to check out the fishing gear and usually bought another lure that was sure to catch the big one. Next stop was the Blask Brothers near Genoa, where we rented a boat for the day. We spent some memorable days, fishing on the mighty Mississippi.
When I got older, I accompanied dad and his fishing buddies on trips to Hayward and Canada in search of trophy Muskies, Northerns, and Walleyes. That’s when I began to understand that fishing is much more than catching fish. It’s when Thoreau’s words began to make sense to me.
Now I prowl the streams of Vernon County in search of trout. Fishing has become just one part of the total outdoor experience. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature make the experience complete. The quiet solitude found along a trout stream is good for the soul, as we become one with nature.
I just returned from spending six days at a conference in Dallas, Texas. It was sunny and the temperature was in the 70’s each day. Now I’m back in Wisconsin and we’re in the middle of a major winter storm. I’m ready to cry “Uncle.” Like most of you, I’ve had enough of winter and don’t want to think about it any more. I’m ready for nice, spring weather, not snow, freezing rain, ice, and cold weather.
It’s time to start thinking about the early trout season and my thoughts are turning to fishing. There’s more to becoming a fisherman than just dropping your line in the water and catching fish.
Henry David Thoreau said, “Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.”
There is truth in those words. A young boy is usually introduced to the woods and streams as a hunter and fisherman, generally tagging along with his father to learn the ways of being a part of the natural world around us. Such was my introduction to hunting, fishing, and spending time enjoying the outdoors. I still take a fishing pole with me when I go fishing, but catching fish is just one aspect of fishing when a person becomes a poet (writer) or naturalist, as Thoreau says.
I remember Sunday family picnics along the banks of a stream running through the Kickapoo Valley near Bloomingdale and Avalanche. They were Hanson family outings that included my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and the Hanson cousins.
Blankets were spread on the grass and picnic baskets, full to overflowing with food, were carried from the cars that had been parked alongside the winding country road.
The women sat on the blankets talking and unpacking the food while the men brought out the fishing gear and headed for the bank of the creek. Most of us kids followed close behind. A red and white bobber was attached to the line and a wiggling earthworm was retrieved from a coffee can filled with dirt. The men would impale the struggling worm on a simple hook at the end of the line attached to an old cane pole for each of us kids. They would even put the line in the water before finally handing the pole to us.
We would sit quietly on the bank, hanging onto the pole for dear life in case a monster fish would suddenly strike. We kept our eyes on the bobber as it floated undisturbed on the surface of the water with nary a ripple and no tug from a monster fish.
We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The anticipation of our bobber suddenly disappearing, eventually gave way to boredom and we soon left our cane poles in the grass and went off exploring along the creek or playing catch. Youngsters are usually short on the patience needed for fishing.
The men would remain seated along the bank, pretending to fish, while discussing the problems of farming and the world in general. Maybe I should have called this column “Beside the Creek” instead of “Across the Fence.” Many stories were told and much information was exchanged on those leisurely Sunday afternoon picnics alongside the meandering creek. I don’t recall many fish being caught, but perhaps that wasn’t the real purpose of fishing after all. Those quiet, peaceful moments along the bank of the creek, with the sound of the water winding its way among the rocks, was music for the soul. This was something the men understood but us youngsters had yet to discover it.
As we got older, our fishing trips were to the Mississippi River. On those rare summer days when there was a lull in the workload on the farm, dad would take us with when he went fishing. We helped him dig worms while ma packed a lunch for us. After stowing the fishing gear, worms, lunch, life preservers, and outboard motor in the trunk of the car, we headed for Genoa, about half an hour away. Our first stop was at the general store in Romance to buy soda and a candy bar, which was always a treat. Of course dad had to check out the fishing gear and usually bought another lure that was sure to catch the big one. Next stop was the Blask Brothers near Genoa, where we rented a boat for the day. We spent some memorable days, fishing on the mighty Mississippi.
When I got older, I accompanied dad and his fishing buddies on trips to Hayward and Canada in search of trophy Muskies, Northerns, and Walleyes. That’s when I began to understand that fishing is much more than catching fish. It’s when Thoreau’s words began to make sense to me.
Now I prowl the streams of Vernon County in search of trout. Fishing has become just one part of the total outdoor experience. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature make the experience complete. The quiet solitude found along a trout stream is good for the soul, as we become one with nature.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
February Snapshots In Words
Across the Fence #327
Many images and memories come drifting back through the bitterly cold days and nights of February as we look ahead and wait for spring to arrive. February is that ugly duckling of a month, when you’ve had enough of the cold weather and the mountains of snow. The only thing that will transform that ugly duckling into a beautiful swan is warm weather.
Until that time, here are a few snapshots of February, in words, that I hope will develop into pictures in your mind.
My cousin, Ron Hanson said, “The snow sounds like styrofoam under my feet. I’m stoking the woodburners like the boiler room on the Titanic. It’s a three dog night and all I’ve got are chihuahuas. Brrr!”
The past few days have definitely been three dog nights. I think we could have used a fourth dog here in Sherpeland, where the wind chill took your breath away.
Here’s another snapshot as the dawn arrives after one of those cold nights. The night sky grows brighter, giving way to the dawn, silhouetting the dark, bare branches against the soft light rising in the east. White smoke curls upward from a neighboring chimney, giving assurance of the warmth and life huddled safely inside on a cold, crisp winter morning. There are still no outward sounds or signs of life. It’s too early for birds and squirrels to venture forth and brave the cold in search of food. The sky turns slowly brighter; shades of yellow-gold now paint the horizon. There’s a flutter of wings through the cold, still air. The first Mourning Dove arrives at the feeder. A squirrel follows close behind to get first chance at the fresh ear of corn. In the quiet stillness of the morning they eat side by side, undisturbed by the crowds that will soon join them. A light pops on in a distant house, giving evidence of life arising. The swirling smoke reaches up and joins with the rising of the dawn. A new day is here and the world is slowly awakening.
When the Westby Snowflake Ski Jumping Tournament is held in February each year, it brings back snapshot memories of my attempts at flying through the air.
Jumping, cross-country, and downhill, are types of skiing, all perfected by Norwegians to a fine art. I can’t say that this Norwegian-American has perfected any of them, but I’ve tried them all.
I got my first pair of skis around the age of six or seven. They were simple wood skis with a strap that dad cut from a piece of inner tube. Our ski boots were our four buckle overshoes. Ski poles consisted of tobacco lathes. Not exactly high tech equipment, but we thought we were pretty hotshot skiers!
We’d ski through the fields and small rolling hills on our prairie farm. No one would ever mistake them for mountains. Neighbor friends would ski with us. We built a jump near the bottom of the hill in one of the back pastures. After packing the snow down on the hill, we got into our finest racing tuck, headed down the in-run, hit the takeoff and flew... four or five feet! Sometimes, we barely cleared the jump. Other times we jumped right out of our skis. It’s hard to jump when you don’t have the proper bindings to hold your skis on!
One year, we got new skis with real bindings for Christmas. We were king of the hill. They were more like cross-country skis, but we used them for jumping, because, coming from Westby, that’s what we thought skis were for.
We built a scaffold with Trygve and Joel Thompson on Birch Hill, located on their farm. It stood about eight feet high, with a ladder to reach the platform on top. We positioned it at the top of a hill where there was a clearing between the trees. I might add, the clearing wasn’t straight, but had a curve near the bottom! We packed the scaffold with snow and built a takeoff halfway down the hill. I think we “flew” about twenty feet on our Birch Hill ski jump, and with real bindings, our skis stayed on our feet! However, points for style were few! We had a lot of fun, but it was probably a lot more dangerous than if we had jumped on a hill designed for jumping.
Another February snapshot in my mind is of the frozen stock tank during the winter. Our milking cows were kept in the barn all winter. However, the heifers were outside and drank from the stock tank. We had to chop a hole in the ice with an axe each morning so they could get to the water. We should have thrown a few fish in the tank and we could have gone ice fishing too.
Time keeps marching on and by the time you read this, hopefully the sub-zero February weather will be a distant memory, and our three dog nights will have turned into one dog nights. Looking back, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it was while we were in the middle of it. Yes, most of us griped about it at the time, but once milder temperatures prevail, we’ll hold bragging rites for years to come as we tell anyone who’ll listen, how we survived the frigid February temperatures of 2011.
Many images and memories come drifting back through the bitterly cold days and nights of February as we look ahead and wait for spring to arrive. February is that ugly duckling of a month, when you’ve had enough of the cold weather and the mountains of snow. The only thing that will transform that ugly duckling into a beautiful swan is warm weather.
Until that time, here are a few snapshots of February, in words, that I hope will develop into pictures in your mind.
My cousin, Ron Hanson said, “The snow sounds like styrofoam under my feet. I’m stoking the woodburners like the boiler room on the Titanic. It’s a three dog night and all I’ve got are chihuahuas. Brrr!”
The past few days have definitely been three dog nights. I think we could have used a fourth dog here in Sherpeland, where the wind chill took your breath away.
Here’s another snapshot as the dawn arrives after one of those cold nights. The night sky grows brighter, giving way to the dawn, silhouetting the dark, bare branches against the soft light rising in the east. White smoke curls upward from a neighboring chimney, giving assurance of the warmth and life huddled safely inside on a cold, crisp winter morning. There are still no outward sounds or signs of life. It’s too early for birds and squirrels to venture forth and brave the cold in search of food. The sky turns slowly brighter; shades of yellow-gold now paint the horizon. There’s a flutter of wings through the cold, still air. The first Mourning Dove arrives at the feeder. A squirrel follows close behind to get first chance at the fresh ear of corn. In the quiet stillness of the morning they eat side by side, undisturbed by the crowds that will soon join them. A light pops on in a distant house, giving evidence of life arising. The swirling smoke reaches up and joins with the rising of the dawn. A new day is here and the world is slowly awakening.
When the Westby Snowflake Ski Jumping Tournament is held in February each year, it brings back snapshot memories of my attempts at flying through the air.
Jumping, cross-country, and downhill, are types of skiing, all perfected by Norwegians to a fine art. I can’t say that this Norwegian-American has perfected any of them, but I’ve tried them all.
I got my first pair of skis around the age of six or seven. They were simple wood skis with a strap that dad cut from a piece of inner tube. Our ski boots were our four buckle overshoes. Ski poles consisted of tobacco lathes. Not exactly high tech equipment, but we thought we were pretty hotshot skiers!
We’d ski through the fields and small rolling hills on our prairie farm. No one would ever mistake them for mountains. Neighbor friends would ski with us. We built a jump near the bottom of the hill in one of the back pastures. After packing the snow down on the hill, we got into our finest racing tuck, headed down the in-run, hit the takeoff and flew... four or five feet! Sometimes, we barely cleared the jump. Other times we jumped right out of our skis. It’s hard to jump when you don’t have the proper bindings to hold your skis on!
One year, we got new skis with real bindings for Christmas. We were king of the hill. They were more like cross-country skis, but we used them for jumping, because, coming from Westby, that’s what we thought skis were for.
We built a scaffold with Trygve and Joel Thompson on Birch Hill, located on their farm. It stood about eight feet high, with a ladder to reach the platform on top. We positioned it at the top of a hill where there was a clearing between the trees. I might add, the clearing wasn’t straight, but had a curve near the bottom! We packed the scaffold with snow and built a takeoff halfway down the hill. I think we “flew” about twenty feet on our Birch Hill ski jump, and with real bindings, our skis stayed on our feet! However, points for style were few! We had a lot of fun, but it was probably a lot more dangerous than if we had jumped on a hill designed for jumping.
Another February snapshot in my mind is of the frozen stock tank during the winter. Our milking cows were kept in the barn all winter. However, the heifers were outside and drank from the stock tank. We had to chop a hole in the ice with an axe each morning so they could get to the water. We should have thrown a few fish in the tank and we could have gone ice fishing too.
Time keeps marching on and by the time you read this, hopefully the sub-zero February weather will be a distant memory, and our three dog nights will have turned into one dog nights. Looking back, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it was while we were in the middle of it. Yes, most of us griped about it at the time, but once milder temperatures prevail, we’ll hold bragging rites for years to come as we tell anyone who’ll listen, how we survived the frigid February temperatures of 2011.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Lights Are Still On In Our Memories
Across the Fence #326
“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.
I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.
Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”
A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”
Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”
From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”
From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”
A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.
This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.
I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.
I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”
I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.
Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.
“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.
I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.
Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”
A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”
Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”
From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”
From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”
A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.
This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.
I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.
I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”
I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.
Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.
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